Tear Drops to Earth
by Just Another Soul
Summary: Just a collection of stories with some choice characters from Black Lagoon having brief, fleeting encounters with everyone's favorite anthropomorphic personifications, the Endless.
1. Death

**Tear Drops to Earth  
**

**A/N: **Yes, I know. Everyone is waiting to see what is going on with that _other_ story, but I am a fickle creature brimming with plot rabbits that refuse to abort their young and absorb them back into the recesses of my tangled mind. I will eventually get back to that _other_ crossover that everyone is wondering about. I haven't abandoned it. I just left it in a boat with a case of wine coolers. It'll be fine.

So here's another crossover that came to me in, no pun intended, my dreams. Though I am very certain only 3 out of the 7 people who bother to read these drabble-ish things will actually understand the context.

Disclaimers: 

Black Lagoon and its characters © Rei Hiroe

The Sandman and the Endless © Neil Gaiman, Vertigo

* * *

**POSTPONED ADVENTURES**

"_Who am _I_? Just a _friend_. Sometimes. Maybe. _Sorry_ I couldn't help you any. Be seeing you..."_

Facade, Volume 3: _Dream Country_

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

People usually expect one of three things when they die. They expect to see a golden gate laden with pearls surrounded by clouds and cherubs with trumpets. Some think of brimstone, lava pits and goat men dancing about with pitchforks. Others expect nothing, an empty blackness and then, silence.

Frederica Sawyer saw none of those things.

She remembers the glimmer of moonlight on the blade. She remembers the spray of scarlet red on the wall and a searing agony in her neck. She remembers the darkness of an alleyway and the sticky sensation of blood soaking through her clothes as she collapsed on the ground in a crimson pool. She remembers pain, horrific pain, then drowsiness. She remembers looking into a starless sky and closing her eyes.

Then she met _her_.

She remembers the pain fleeting away, a smile on black lips and a pale face. The darkly lined eyes and ankh about her neck shined and she—it? The way the black gothic tank and black leather pants hugged the curves, it certainly looked like a she. Who, or what, was this apparition before her? Her origin was unknown, but one thing was certain. _She_ was beautiful, and a foreign emotion engulfed Frederica. It was a sensation of calm and security, a comfortable warmth in her chest. Was this love? Not romantic love, but something of fierce dedication and welcoming. What was bringing all these feelings to surface? She had never seen this woman in her life, but she felt in that very instance she had known _her_ before her own birth.

"Hmm, I wasn't expecting you so soon," she tittered and held her chin in between her forefinger and thumb, the other hand falling on the swell of her hip. The eyes of Ra and Horus looked down at what was Frederica Sawyer. The young adolescent's body was highlighted with a ghastly glow in the moonlight, curled into a ball as ghost-white hands gripped a denim dress. Frederica turned away in horror upon seeing the massive gash across her neck.

"It is a nasty sight, I agree with you," the mystery woman in black said, moving to Frederica from behind. She gingerly placed her hands on the young girl's shoulders. "Not so fatal, though. You're stronger than you look. It's not time for me to take you along on an adventure yet."

"An adventure?" Frederica asked with wide eyes, looking over her shoulder at the ankh woman.

"Something like that," the woman explained slyly. "As I said, you still have a _lifetime_. The adventure will have to wait." She went to lift her hands, but Frederica desperately grabbed at a wrist.

"Don't leave me!" she pleaded. She didn't want to lose her warmth. "What's going on? Who are you?"

The mystery woman placed a hand gently on top of the one that had gripped her wrist. She looked deeply into Frederica's eyes with a tender smile.

"An old friend," the mystery woman reassured.

At that moment, Frederica understood.

Then she blinked, and she found herself in a hospital bed with stitches in her neck. There was no mystery woman in black, no warmth, and no comfort. There was only the cold, sterile air of the hospital and a burning soreness in her throat.

Sawyer "the Cleaner" never told anyone about her experience with Death, or how deeply she still wished for her warm embrace. In her earlier years, she had futile attempts in her depressive fits to meet her friend again, to end the heartache and melancholia, but the woman in black never came. Her suicidal feats were only met with more visits to the hospital and bouts of loneliness.

As the teenager grew into a woman, she moved on from the razor blades and substituted them with a chainsaw, her wrists replaced by a thief's hands and a squealer's head. She wore surgeon scrubs and did business in an abattoir for work. In her leisure, she donned gothic dress and applied dark liner to her sapphire blue eyes to emulate the mystery woman from so long ago.

Sawyer says and tells herself that those she "cleans up" and packs away in crates are flesh, empty vessels, disregarded. She gives the assumption to others that she is clinical, cold, detached from those she disposes. Yet, in truth, what she unknowingly or maybe willfully hides from herself is: she envies those bodies in the boxes. She envies the thug in the suitcase and the screaming drunkard in the alleyway, the hapless prey of the bounty and the health inspector in her slaughterhouse. For as they met their gruesome ends to an engine with carbide teeth, she knew in her heart that her friend would be there to meet them, with her tender smile and warm eyes.

Frederica Sawyer likes her life as it is now. She likes her life in Roanapur, the tropical crime capital of the continent. She likes the buildings that blend with the palm trees with a sunset in the backdrop. She likes being able to work in the meatpacking plant at night. She likes settling down by the side of a pool on a hot day. She likes her Taiwanese freelancer friend Shenhua, and enjoys hunting with her even more so. She likes her weird, handsome friend Rotton and playing video games with him for hours on end. Life, despite some occasional criminal mishaps, was good to her.

But Sawyer still misses her old friend, her first friend, and she patiently awaits the day they will meet again.

* * *

**A/N: **You know it's not a fic by JAS unless Sawyer is the lead.

A goth obsessed with Death. So edgy. Very clever. Much cliché. Wow.

Coming up next, somebody gets to be a little delirious.


	2. Delirium

**COCOA SWIRLSES**

"_Her realm is close and can be visited; however, human minds were not made to comprehend her domain, and those few who have made the journey have been incapable of reporting back more than the tiniest fragments."_

Episode 0, Volume 4: _A Season of Mists_

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

When he looked out at the Thai water markets during the night, Rotton "the Wizard" expected to see stars reflected in the waves. Instead, he saw butterflies.

This happened to him often, perhaps. He recalled events like these as though they occurred years ago, but they also _felt_ recent. Sometimes, he thought he experienced the world in different time spans, and this was strange to him. Surely feelings like that were not normal.

The moonlight bounced off his silver hair, giving it an ethereal glow. The black trenchcoat and impractical sunglasses absorbed the rest. He sat at a small, white circular table underneath an umbrella, resting on a plastic patio chair with a plate of Pad Thai in front of him. His eyes were assaulted with a shifting rainbow and the butterflies carried his food away. When the flurry of wings dissipated, he beheld the sight of a young woman with multi-colored hair and green eyes. Or were they blue? Beside her appeared to be a fantastically unamused tan and black dog resting on the ground with its head resting upon its crossed paws.

"**U**_m_, _th_is **c**_**o**_**f**fee is _my_ fav**o**ri_t_e. **I** th_in_k y**o**_u w_ou**l**_**d**_** li**ke _it_, t_o_o. I**t t**a_ste_s li**k**e p_urp_l**e s**_**il**_k a_**n**__d p__**o**_l_ka_ d**o**t_s_." She meekly pushed a porcelain white cup across the table and bit her lip.

"Do I know you?" Rotton asked airily, taking the cup without question and forgetting the butterflies. He sipped. He wasn't certain what silk or polka dots tasted like, but he supposed that was the flavor on his tongue. He observed her state of dress. The young woman wore a mauve bomber jacket drooping around her elbows, the crossing black lines of a fishnet shirt and stockings underneath. She had green sneakers and khaki cargo shorts with brightly colored bangles around her wrists. The dog at her side yawned.

"Y_**o**_u k**no**w_ m_e, _so_rt **o**f, bu_t n_o**t r**_**ea**_l_ly_. _**S**__om_**eti**mes," she paused. She weaved her delicate hand beneath the side of her head that sported long tendrils of bright red and orange with jade and turquoise highlights, before absentmindedly scratching the side that was shaved. She nibbled on her lip and smiled.

"You do seem familiar to me," he noted. "But I cannot place where I have seen you."

"_Yo_u **v**_**i**_**s**it **m**y p_la_c**e a** lo_**t, s**_o**rt** o_f._ I f_org_e**t**," she muttered, looking off to the side. Rotton blinked behind his sunglasses. Wasn't the shaved side of her head on the left a moment ago? Or was it always like that?

"**Yo**u_r ch_e_**e**_k i_s r__**e**_**d**," she blurted, fascinated by the cut on his face. "Y_o_u **g**_ot i_t, _I t__**h**_**in**k,_ la_st ti**m**e _yo_u w**e**_**re**_** a**t m_y_ pl**ac**e. _**Ma**_yb_e, I'_m n**ot s**u_re_. Y_ou _we**re** o_**n**_ a _**t**__ow_e_r wi_th l**ig**hts_ li_**ke **t**h**e fi_ref_li**es**. T**he**s_e b_a_**d gu**_ys _m_**ad**e yo_u f_a**l**l, b_**ut **_it'_s o_ka**y** _bec_a**u**se I go_t m_ad a**n**d s_a_w **r**e_d_, _red_, _**red**_ a**nd** I _ma__**d**_e th**e**_m se_e c**ol**_**o**__rs_. _**Lo**_ts **o**f pr_et_ty **col**o_rs_, a_nd _t**he**y _dan_c_**e**_d a_**n**__d be_ca**me r**e_d to_o an_d_ th**en** m**y si**st_er c_a**me**."

The dog almost had a pensive expression, as much as a dog could emote.

"Forgive me, miss, but I do not recall ever formally visiting you," Rotton confessed. He did remember a botched hunting job the night before when a bullet had grazed his cheek before another hit him in the chest (and his bulletproof vest) and knocked him off of a building. After landing not-too-gently in a dumpster, he vaguely recalled those responsible for his fall screaming about rainbows and worms. The last thing he remembered were the gunshots in their frenzy to kill the "worms" and witnessing them all shoot each other in the process. He thought they were merely hallucinating on psychotics before he slipped away to collect his paycheck.

"I was working last night," was all he said.

"_**Yo**_u w_en_t t**o m**y pl_**a**__ce_, **t**_**o**_**o**, I _thi_n**k**," she said. Little silver specs in her one green eye glimmered. "Y_**o**_u co_me th_er**e **a **lo**t. _I li_k_**e**_ yo_u_r p**oet**ry _a_n**d da**nci_n_g, ki_**nd**_ o_f. It_ m_**akes**_ _m_e s**mi**le."

Rotton furrowed his brow and looked down at the floating markets. He saw luminescent butterflyfish swimming beneath the water in a beautiful spectrum, before he asked himself why saltwater fish were swimming in a river.

"B**u**t, u_hm_, _**I **_get _**sad**_ when _**you come**_, so_meti_mes," she said, looking down at her hands. "_No good_ comes from someone like _me_ and _someone like you_. Stuff like that doesn't go very well and—" She groaned and gripped her head in pain. Rotton also noted the butterflyfish melting until they were skeletons in the water. The dog raised its head from the ground and uttered a sound of concern.

"Are you all right?" Rotton asked, placing the cup of coffee on the table. She loosened her grip on her head and stared at him through her fingers with a shaky smile.

"**I**_t h_ur**ts **m_e to_ th_**i**_n**k, I t**h_ink_," she murmured. "_M_y ol_**de**_st s**ist**er... S_he s_ay**s so**me_ st_u**ff** _**whe**_n you g_e_t **i**n_to tro_ub**le **a**t** m_y p_la_**ce, b**_ut yo_u d_on't re**a**l**l**y no_ti_ce, **I thi**nk_... I f_or_**g**_et... " She took back the coffee and sipped. The blue and green eyes gazed at him over the rim of the cup.

" _**Um**_m, _I th_in**k** it_'s o_ka**y fo**r m_**e**_ to ta_**l**_k t_o yo_u, n**ot **a_**lw**_ay_s, b_u**t** so_met_im**es, si**n_ce m_y s**iste**r_-bro_th**e**r s_ay_**s** **y**_ou_ a**re m**ark_e_d _a_s** mi**n_e_," she said in a tone as though she were trying to convince herself of something, or nothing at all. The dog appeared to sigh and shot an exasperated glance the girl's way.

"Yours?" Rotton asked. "I never recalled agreeing to—"

"_Yo_u s**ee** m_**e**_ a _lo_t," she interrupted, looking at her reflection in the coffee. "B_**ut**_ yo**u**'r_e lea_vi_**ng**_ no_w._.. **bu**t _I do_n_**'t th**_i_n__**k **__i_t w**il**l **b**_e v__**e**__r_y_ lon_g. Y**ou'l**_l_ s_e_e m_**e**_ ag_ai_n. Y_ou_ a**lwa**ys **d**_o_..."

Then Rotton was alone with the water markets and an empty chair across from him. There was a long pause as he stared at the cold cup of coffee. He raised an eyebrow.

"I don't remember ordering this," he said. When he looked into the chocolate-black liquid, he expected to see his reflection in the moonlight.

He saw swirls.

* * *

**A/N: **For all his mishaps in Roanapur, he still manages to survive. People think Rotton is lucky, yet he does not belong to Lady Luck. It is only natural that he belongs to Delirium.

I imagine Rotton being so oblivious to reality that he freely travels between Delirium's domain and the tangible plane without really comprehending it. He just forgets his meetings with her since his brain is already kind of in a La La Land of its own. Hence why she might like him... kind of.


	3. Desire

**LOVELESS TANGO**

"Most_ people want things like a _candle-flame_, flickering, shifting. _You_, on the other hand, want like a _forest fire_. I should _warn_ you, getting what you want and being _happy_ are two quite different things."_

Chapter 2, _The Sandman: Endless Nights_

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Years ago, Garcia Lovelace was a boy. He was a child with innocence not quite touched. He was without cynicism and gloom, despite coming from the poorest out of the thirteen richest families in South America. He had a dog, a house, and a nice garden. He had little memory of his mother, who passed away before he could have his first memory, but grew to have strong ethics and strong morals, for he had a good man for a father. Yet even without the house, the garden, or the dog, all was well so long as he had his maid.

Then the cartel came and took him half way across the world to the Thai city of Roanapur. He fell into the hands of mercenaries and he witnessed the dark side of the world. Still, he remembers holding onto his ideals and hopes, for he knew in his heart that _she_ would come for him, and she did. Even after seeing his seemingly innocent house maid morph into an unstoppable machine who cut down everything in her path, he still saw the woman who would place her life before his, who would tear the world asunder in his name. She was not a lowly dog, as she claimed herself to be. She was _Roberta_, his maid, his dearest companion, and when they escaped the wicked city and returned to Venezuela, he knew all would be well again.

Yes, he was certainly a boyin those days.

Then she left him after his father had been assassinated. She reverted back to her old ways to hunt down those responsible for destroying their picture perfect portrait of a family. He promised they were never to part again, and if it had meant going back to that squalid place called Roanapur to find her, then it would be so. He tried to act like a man during his search, but when he finally found her seducing a high ranking member of FARC, moving her hips with his and panting underneath him like a mutt in heat, only to turn on the terrorist and bash his skull into the pavement, he cried like a child. He curled up like a baby.

The world had moved in a massive blur, but when he came to, he decided it was time for the childhood fantasy to end. No more thoughts of tea parties in the garden or quaint history lessons about the family heirlooms. The world of light, the age of innocence, was gone. Roberta thought she was hunting alone, but it was his duty as a man to follow his maid wherever she would wander. Roberta had completely immersed herself into the world of the dead, and he gladly joined her. He vowed from that day forward that he would dance the dance of the dead with her for as long as he drew breath.

Yet romanticism was lost on Roberta. Their relationship never truly passed a platonic level, much to his chagrin as he grew older. Garcia would never force anything on his beloved Roberta, but it hurt him deeply when she rejected his advances. Roberta had been literally torn to pieces by the end of her hunt all those years ago, turned into a mess of prosthetic limbs. The woman struggled to walk with a cane; she clutched a rosary around her neck in a death grip and muttered prayers under her breath. Roberta transcended the material plane and tried to elevate herself to something higher to atone for her sins.

However, Garcia was a man with a man's needs, now in his mid twenties, and when a woman with porcelain white skin and piercing gold eyes approached him at a fundraising event he held at his plantation, it was difficult for him to avert his eyes.

"Ah, so _you_ are the one who beckons me," she hummed with a voice as smooth as silk. She reached out with a gloved hand and caressed his jawline. Garcia furrowed his brow. There was a bright red rose tucked behind her ear. It matched the color of her heels and dress, attire much like that of a flamenco dancer. Her raven black hair was braided behind her head and drifted down to the small of her back.

"I beckoned no one," Garcia struggled to say, a sudden heat rising within him as he batted away her hand. There were too many important figures surrounding the area. He could not be caught consorting with a mysterious woman –who appeared almost to have masculine lines about her face– in such attire, no matter how lovely.

"Do not be so brash. It is unbecoming of a gentleman," the woman said as she rested a hand on her hip, tilting her head down ever slightly with a sensuous smirk. Garcia blinked, unable to find any words. When he went to open his mouth, she placed a finger to his lips.

"Do you see her over there?" she gestured over his shoulder. He looked over and beheld the sight of a beautiful woman with lightly tanned skin and hair so dark it had a green tint to it. She was serving tea to the guests in the garden.

"That is my maid, Fabiola. What of her?" Garcia asked suspiciously.

"Since your _needs_ are not being met with the one you wish to acquire, why not settle them with someone who is attainable... and all too _willing_?"

Garcia's jaw dropped and he stared at her incredulously, blushing suddenly.

"Who are you? Who do you think you are to make these accusa—"

"It is extremely unbecoming of a man to blush, also," she boasted. "Do you _truly_ not see the way she has been looking at you all this time? It is only in my nature to see the desperate _desire_ of others be met. The tension from both of you could snap the _espadas_ in your family's conquest hallway."

Garcia ran a finger through his blonde hair before loosening the black tie around his neck, looking away from the flamenco woman in thought. She raised her eyebrows with a cocky grin. She began to circle around him.

"Oh, so you _have_ noticed," she drawled.

"I don't understand how you know this." Despite his wariness, the man felt as though this odd woman dancing around him had all the knowledge in the world pertaining to them.

"What makes you think she wants me?" Garcia asked dryly, moving to face her as she continued to move in circles. Still, he blushed.

"Are you that _blind?_" she chided. "All those years ago, you went to search for your beloved maid. Who was it that trailed behind _you_ when you wanted to go half way across the world for her? Who was the one who stood by _your_ side and served you faithfully as _you_ chased a dog on the hunt? Who was the one who trained in secret to protect _you_ and hid her desires, desires as innocent as wanting to swim in the family fountain, to save face for _your_ sake? Who was the one who swore to help _you_ help your_ most cherished maid_ find her atonement when the bullets stopped flying, despite knowing it meant bringing her own life down with you? Who _is_ the one who spends all of her time away from her family in the barrio so she can serve _you_? Who _is_ the one who looks at _you_ with a gaze so deep and mutters _your name_ in hushed whispers at night once you are asleep and cannot hear?"

Garcia looked down at his feet with a frown. The flamenco woman stopped her dance and placed her fingers under his chin so he would look into her eyes.

"You lust after a woman who is twice your age and has no interest in mortal coils. I'm going to give you some advice, Garcia Lovelace. Your _needs_ will never be fulfilled with _that_ one. Stop trying to chase someone who finds salvation in chaste gestures. After I am done talking, dismiss this little get together. Then go to the _young_ _maid_ and tell her you want to share some wine by your bedside tonight, that you _desire_ her services. She will understand the words, and she will meet you. You will indulge each other and howl and pant like beasts until daybreak. Perhaps you two will like it so much that you will continue the ritual for months on end until you produce another heir to the Lovelace bloodline."

She released his chin and took out a black fan, hiding her face and turning on her heel. She looked back at him over her shoulder.

"Now, doesn't that _sound_ so much _better_ than following the trail of an old bloodhound?"

As she walked away into the crowd of politicians and people of influence, Garcia said nothing, mouth agape and eyes blank, as though under a spell. Then he blinked, straightened his posture, and looked at Fabiola on the other side of the garden. For a moment, she caught his stare. The stunning woman smiled back at him as she demurely tucked a stray tendril of a dark hair behind her ear.

A sudden heat ran through his core, and he decided that the party guests had overstayed their welcome.

* * *

**A/N:** I originally wanted to do Jane for Desire, but I couldn't really think of anything solid, nor something that would run along Desire's twisted vein. Then, it hit me. The whole Roberta/Garcia/Fabiola dynamic is much more suitable to Desire's domain.

Because, as we all know, Desire can transition quite easily into Despair...


	4. Despair

**BAILE DE PENA**

"_There's an important lesson, then: Yearning may lead only to unhappiness. A wise person knows when to stop searching."_

Seven Nights in Slumberland, _The Sandman: Book of Dreams_

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Countless pills scattered on top of the vanity. A crunching sound was heard in the darkness, the moonlight reflecting off the mirror as a woman scooped the tablets with her prosthetic hand and forced them into her mouth. She frothed at the mouth like a dog, overcoming the horrid bitterness and swallowing. She wiped her chin and attempted to wipe her tears, only to remember she was missing her left arm.

Her dark hair framed her face and shoulders, empty eyes staring in the direction of the mirror in front of her, but looking past it. She attempted to grip the crucifix around her neck, but her prosthetic replacement bumped into it lifelessly. She sobbed and rested her forehead on the table.

She thought she could find atonement in Roanapur, find salvation in the hunt. She thought the young master could heal her, that she would find relief from her woes when she met the family of the phantom that chased her. She only found more anguish. For one family in a sea of hundreds of lives lost and tarnished did not wholly begin to heal the wounds she left. She had felt obligated to meet with more families to build her road to redemption. Even in her disabled state, she _was_ the Bloodhound of Florencia, and she knew how to track people down if she so wished.

She wanted to say to everyone she had ever wronged, "I was an evil person following false ideals. I stand here before you as a sinner seeking atonement for my atrocious deeds. All the pain I have caused you and your loved ones is on my shoulders, and you have every reason to despise me. All I ask of you is to look at my eyes and know that I am sincere when I tell you that I am _sorry_ for all I have done."

That was exactly what she said, and instead of forgiveness, she was shot down with cold stares, cursed tenfold to suffer a worse fate than those she had killed during those dark days from not so long ago.

"The Bloodhound asks for forgiveness?" she remembered one woman say to her with a voice like venom. She had been elderly with wrinkled skin like tanned leather and hair white as the mountain peaks. The old woman had barely measured up to four feet.

"I watched my children _burn_, and you ask for my blessing?"

She remembered how the saliva stung when it hit her eye. It was not the only occasion where someone spat at her in disgust. The amount of people who did so and shut the door in her face had greatly outnumbered those who had embraced her and shed tears.

The young master did attempt to comfort her in those times, and his efforts were appreciated. Yet the love he gave her was not the love she had once yearned for. No longer were the days where she guarded him, when she found a noble calling in protecting someone weaker than herself. The roles had reversed and the young master grew into a dapper young man with a man's desires. The love he once felt for her had changed, and she did not reciprocate the feelings. Even after the kiss all those years ago, she could not see him as the man her foolish actions had forced him to become. It did not feel natural. It did not feel _right_.

She winced as she heard a faint moan coming from down the hall. Fabiola, too, had grown, and the young master had noticed. Could she blame him? Could she blame _them_? After refusing him, it was only natural his attentions would go elsewhere. Fabiola was closer to his age and returned his love without any qualms. Their relationship was far healthier than anything that would have come from the young master and herself engaging in any carnal indulgences.

Still, there was a knot in the pit of her stomach at the thought of the young master and the other maid. She knew them when they were _children_, and thinking of them in any other sense (despite they were now adults) was nauseating to her.

The prosthetic hand moved quickly to her mouth and she gagged. A twister of a multicolored spectrum flashed before her eyes and her head began to throb. She broke into a cold sweat and lifted her head to stare at her reflection. In the mirror, she saw Carlos the Jackal; she saw the major; she saw Diego Lovelace; she saw all the mothers and fathers and children she had killed; she saw a woman with the eyes of a rabid dog. On reflex, she screamed and brought her head down upon the mirror, shattering it. Droplets of blood stained the shards and the top of the vanity, mixing with her tears.

Her sobs quietly echoed in the dark room; she failed to notice the image in shards.

A squat, naked, obese woman sank a sharp hook into her flabby cheek and flashed a shark-like grin.

"Your tears are delicious, Roberta Lovelace," the apparition muttered in her domain of endless fog and mirrors. A large rat scurried into one of the loose folds of flesh on the sickly entity's body. She yanked the hook out of her face and black liquid oozed down a pale cheek.

"Please, continue. You amuse me so."

* * *

**A/N:** There is not as much Endless interaction as with previous chapters, but Despair prefers to sit and watch rather than mingle.

Years ago, I was browsing comments on "The Unstoppable Chambermaid" episode and someone said, "Fuck that bitch. I lived through the FARC attacks in Columbia. She doesn't deserve pity or forgiveness."

That was someone's reaction to a _fictional_ character who was _written_ to be that way. So I wonder if the family Roberta went to meet at the end of the OVA really forgave her, or if the scene just cut away from a harsher moment.


	5. Destiny

**THE STORY OF THE SALARYMAN**

"_I have very little to say."_

Chapter 3, _Volume 10: The Wake_

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

There is a tale of a man from the land of the rising sun who travelled to the land of midnight. It begins as a bland tale, a telling of a boy born to a salaryman and a housewife in a small apartment in Japanese suburbia, both who already had a son who studied well and had natural talents for the world of academia. The boy grew up in the shadow of the older brother, as many children do, and did not quite become the black sheep of the family. Instead, the boy settled for existing and just being "there," which was as dark as the boy ever was. The boy grew into an adolescent, then into a man, then a salaryman, like his father before him. His older brother, ever the achiever, had bigger things ahead of him, but this story is not his. It is the story of Rokuro Okajima.

The origins of Rokuro are short, for recollections of subways and cubicles are a bore. His tale truly begins when he leaves the steel towers of Tokyo and sails the South China seas. For it is there he meets a band of delivery boys and a gun girl aboard a ship. He is taken hostage and given a new name, a much better name, "Rock." The ragtag band drag him to a bar at the end of the world (well, the end of _their_ world, as they perceive it). There is a gunfight, and though he does not instantly recognize it, Rock becomes enamoured with the gun girl during the exchange of bullets. There is a plot of nuclear schematics and a callous businessman, but it is a fleeting yet important detail in Rock's story. Somewhere along the way, after being cornered in a boat in a lagoon, Rock saves himself and his newfound friends by proposing a plan of striking a helicopter out of the air with a torpedo, and then proving it possible by implementing it. He proves his worth, and gains the calculating curiosity and amusement of a scarred Russian woman, who has a compelling story of her own.

Ah, but this is the tale of Rock, not the Russian, and his tale must continue.

Rock loses all traces of who was once Rokuro Okajima. Instead of living a bland life of office courtesies and endless bowing, he goes on adventures. He goes diving for a painting. He runs unique errands in Thailand. He encounters the heir to the Lovelace family and his terminator maid. He travels to the Philippines to deliver documents and meets pirates, mercenaries and everyone else in between. He meets and mourns a vampire. He saves a counterfeiter. Then he goes back to Japan on a favor for the scarred Russian woman, the last place on earth he wants to be.

After his failed attempts to save her, he watches a Yakuza princess die before his eyes. He was told to look away. He didn't. It haunts him when he returns to Thailand. The Lovelace heir returns with another battle maid, for the previous maid is hiding in the pirate city of Roanapur. Rock hatches a plan to save them all, and after many a complicated plot, he does.

He still loses, even when he wins.

He learns from his experience with the maid and the heir, that it is best not to meddle in the affairs of others without their permission and due guidance. So when a Chinese hacker is betrayed by her government, he knows exactly what to do. She is a castaway abandoned by her own country. He knows the story, and he is pleasantly surprised to find that she, too, finds more solace in the freedom of the criminal city of Roanapur than she had ever had working within the walls the government. They are kindred spirits in that way, and it is reassuring to see a reflection of himself without the past troubles of the Yakuza princess and the Bloodhound. The hacker has a new start, and he is curious to see where she goes.

Many years and adventures later, he finds himself looking out at the Roanapur sunrise from a steel tower not unlike the one Rokuro Okajima worked out of in Japan so long ago. He amasses wealth and allies in his time in the criminal city, and he couldn't be happier. He is an entrepreneur of sorts. He is a top dog without the glory. No one truly knows what he does, but his status is a testimony that he does it well. It is not and never was his style to stand out, and it was that mode of thinking that has kept him alive thus far.

For once, he is wearing the accursed aloha shirt and a pair of trunks, and he decides to settle down by the indoor pool with a glass of Bacardi. It always was Revy's favorite. He misses her dearly...

This is but a summary of the life of Rock, for all the details are in the pages of the book that tells the beginning and end of all. The details, to the human mind, are vast and intricate, as are all things with the book. To Rock, his life is complex, ever changing, a challenge and blessing to reside in the city of Roanapur. To him, in his subconscious mind, it is a tale worthy of a novel, a series. To Destiny, whose chains echo with his movements in his garden maze, it is naught more than an entry among many.

However, the eldest of the Endless will sometimes glance at specific parts of his book more than some others, and there will be the briefest and faintest of smiles, if Destiny does smile. For the book tells all that has happened and all that will be, and he does have favorable passages.

The tale of Rock is an amusing one, but in the entry beneath his, there is a grander character by comparison. Destiny's fingers wander over the words. It is a story he is familiar with, for he is familiar with them all. Some tales are only meant for Destiny's blind eyes, and if he ever were encountered in his garden, as it does happen time to time, he would say, cryptically, that there are many things still hidden in the black lagoon.

* * *

**A/N: **Briefly recalling the events of Black Lagoon so far. I always find it amusing that Revy is often thought to be the main character, but if you think about it, it's actually a story about Rock and his experiences. He is the only one in the series who gets to narrate. Everyone else is along for the ride.


	6. Destruction

**THE ARTIST AND THE SOLDIER**

"_Things _still_ change. The only difference is that no one's _running_ it anymore. It's nothing to do with me any longer. It's _theirs_. They can make their _own_ destruction."_

Chapter 8, Volume 7: _Brief Lives_

- 0 – 0 – 0 -

The tails of her greatcoat moved in the wind. She stood at the grave long after the memorial service was over and her men had left. She had made her motives known, given her command, and they had followed her willingly, openly. She had their trust and their loyalty; through this new war, _their_ war, she swore she would lead them all until the earth was reduced to cinders and they danced amongst the flames.

_But not this one,_ she thought to herself as she looked at the grave of her former second-in-command. Someone close to her, as all her soldiers were, a vital piece of the unit, was lost to the underworld. She could not lead him out of the grave, but she would do everything to destroy the world that had taken him. She had no flowers to give, only fierce vows and military courtesies. Her fists clenched, nails digging deep. Lost to drugs and dirty money, a foul ending to someone who survived through the sands and bullets of Afghanistan. They had been denied their death on the battlefield and were greeted with disgrace before being stripped of their ranks. In their shameful poverty, he had died in a gutter and was eaten by the slum dogs. A low growl burred in her throat and she saw red.

The color red, like his hair.

In her peripheral vision, she saw somebody move. She turned her head with a sceptical glance. It was a man with a cleanly trimmed beard, whose fiery toned hair had been tied back into a low ponytail. His stature and build was muscular and immense, and for a brief moment, as the morning sun rose behind him, he almost appeared to be something out of a _Bylina_. Though he didn't look like a warrior in a comely linen kosovorotka and brown trousers. His appearance was more like that of a humble villager. He passed by the tombstones, placing a flower on each grave. Cradling a massive bouquet in one arm, he caught her gaze and smiled.

She glared.

"Paying your respects?" he asked in a deep baritone. His accent did not sound Russian, but not entirely foreign either.

"Something of that nature. Isn't that the appropriate manner in a cemetery?" she asked rhetorically. Her glare hardened as he approached her.

"A soldier, I see. It is no wonder I was drawn here," he said as he grinned. "I should thank you for your service."

Something vile rose in her stomach and she curled her lip.

"I take it you have heard that too much?" he said. The man's gleeful expression turned solemn. "Or perhaps you have heard it very little."

"Stop it, that look is sickening," she proclaimed. "I am a soldier. I fight because it is my duty. I do not fight for notoriety, so you can cease giving me a look of grievance."

"My, such words!" His smile returned. "Certainly a soldier and an officer by your tone. I can tell even without the rank on your greatcoat."

She was about to say something sharp in response, but then she looked at his eyes. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable aside from his sheer height and bulk, but his eyes held more details. She knew those eyes anywhere, and she knew instantly that the man had seen his share of war.

"You notice, do you?" he asked suddenly. She furrowed her brows in a stern expression.

"How do you—?"

"Even the _bogatyrs_ knew when they met their own brethren," he said airily, his smile slowly turning into a frown. "I have seen a lot of destruction in my time, on and off the battlefield. I used to relish it all... but I grew tired of it. Now, I just travel, and sometimes do things like this." He gestured to the bouquet of flowers and the grave they stood in front of.

"I couldn't help overhearing what you had said to all those men," he said. "I was on the other side of the cemetery, but your voice carries well. Do you really intend to lead them into another war?"

The man had no judgement in his tone. It was a genuine question. She hesitated answering him, wondering if she should confirm what he had heard. He shook his head and raised his hand.

"Nevermind," he motioned. "Your affairs are not of my concern. I am but a passerby. I do have one comment..."

She said nothing in response, only moving her head an iota forward to show him she was paying attention.

"In the grander scheme, our lives are insignificant. They're light as air, much like a candy wrapper," he intoned. "It is up to people to create their own weight, their own purpose that keeps them going. If your intention is to burn the underworld to a crisp and die dancing in an inferno, that is your business. Fighting for a dead comrade is one of the more noble reasons to go to war, from what I have seen in my time."

She did not break eye contact with him, but her head had lowered in thought. The frown left his face and he laughed heartily, throwing his head back and catching her off-guard.

"Ah, you must forgive me! In addition to my travels, I do poetry as well. Are my words too saccharine?"

She attempted to smile.

"Pasternak's ghost has nothing to worry about. If you want to do something artistic, your talents might be better rendered in portraits. It is a thought."

"A thought I will strongly consider," he said, then looked back at the grave of her comrade. "Would you like to lay this down?" He plucked a flower from the bouquet and handed it to her. She accepted without protest and placed it on the grave, lowering her head and closing her eyes. She wasn't praying, but it was a courtesy, a gesture of respect. When she opened her eyes, she saw his bulky hand holding out a rose.

"He already has one flower," she stated.

"This is not for him," he said. She blinked once and steadied her gaze.

"I offer this tribute for the death of Sofiya Povlovena, who passed away long ago fighting in the desert sands. In her place stands a warrior the likes of Koschei the Deathless would tremble to behold, _Balalaika_. I believe it is a name worthy for an instrument of destruction."

In that instant, she could say nothing, do nothing, but stare at the rose in his hands. How did he know her name? She had never mentioned it, and in what realm did he think he had a place to rename her?

"You are marked as mine, though my days of ruin have long since passed. I gave it up," he hummed lowly. "Whether or not you take this offering is up to you, just as you choose to wage war. No one forced you to make that decision. You _created_ your own path. Always know this."

And he was gone. She was alone in the cemetery with no more than the morning sun and a dead breeze. At her feet, there was a rose.

_Ghosts and graveyards, what a clichéd theme_, she thought.

With an iron gaze, she turned on her heel and walked away.

She never returned for the rose.

* * *

**A/N: **Because Destruction can just walk up to the ladies and leave on a whim with no repercussions. Artists can do that.

In the episode "Snow White's Payback", Balalaika says to Rock, "In the grander scheme, our lives are insignificant. They're light as air, much like a candy wrapper." She doesn't initially strike me to make Forrest Gump metaphors about life and candy wrappers, but in my stupid head canon, it was something she picked up from Destruction.

Balalaika/Destruction is my new OTP. Deal with it.


	7. Dream

**MEN IN BLACK**

"_For all of you, the dream is over. I have taken it away. For this is my judgment on you: that you shall know, at all times, and forever, exactly what you are. And you shall know just how LITTLE that means."_

Part Five, Volume 2: _The Doll's House_

- 0 – 0 – 0 -

She always saw feathers. They always floated by after the cell locked with a clang, after she heard his breathing, after the police jacket was thrown to a corner, after she felt his callused, sweaty palms covering her mouth and slithering about and _in_ her. She would see red in blurs and she would grab her gun and she would go with a bang, _bang_, _bang_ and the casings would drop and the feathers would float and she should have felt better but she just felt pissed. The sky would be red and the clouds would be black and there'd be a badass track in the background and she would think to herself, "Fucking hell, the _yaba_ and Overholt is screwing with me."

She would know it wasn't all real yet it _was_ real and she didn't dream. She had fucked up moments that she'd rather not think about in waking. Give her a day in happy fun time world Tokyo with some blow and a businessman while shooting some cans off a playset and putting some lead in some bullshido fuckhead with a bad haircut. Give her wild times in a jungle with a Chinglish bitch and random explosions that only happen in the movies. Give her some neo-Nazi tards to be fish chow and a maid on the side to roast and batter. Fuck it all. Anything but the goddamn feathers.

The feathers, for once, listened and disappeared. She stood on the top of a building with the wind in her hair, looking out at Roanapur, then turned around and miraculously found herself in front of the Yellow Flag. She touched the door and the bar blew up before her eyes.

"Damn it, Revy! It's always your fault!" she heard the disembodied voice of Bao say.

"I didn't even do anything!" she yelled at the air. Then there was nothing but rubble and Roanapur began to look like the set of an old Western with a sickly orange sky with vultures over her head. Some odd tune by Johnny Cash whistled in her ear. _God's Gonna Cut You Down_, huh?

There was a rumble and the crack of a whip. Over the horizon she saw a dark cowboy on a horse. His eyes were the color of the brimstone sky and his horse was pitch black, a shadow. Before him, Revy turned back into Rebecca, no longer a woman but a scared girl in a leather jacket and torn jeans. She shivered before him and looked over her shoulder. Fuck, that cop. She could feel it. He was coming for her.

"You wanna be bad, girl," the rider said. It wasn't a question. She looked up at him pleadingly. It was Jack Wilson, _the_ Man in Black, the original badass motherfucker, her hero. He came to save her.

"All these years and you still don't have it," he grumbled. "No _bitch_ is riding with me. You need to have more grit. I want a _real_ bad girl, and you ain't it." The ground cracked beneath the shadow steed's hooves as the Man in Black turned around. Tears streamed down her face.

"No, wait! I _am_ bad! Let me ride with you!"

But her hero was gone in a cloud of dust and flame. A cold hand touched her shoulder and she turned to see the cop. He clenched her shoulder so hard it ripped out of its socket.

"You motherfucker!" she cried. "I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!"

"I wouldn't be so loud, Becky. The boy will hear us," he murmured into her ear. She took a swipe at his face and her wrist cracked in his grip. She was thrown to the ground and his jacket landed alongside her. The sand stung her eyes and blinded her.

"Now, is that any way to talk to New York's finest?"

She couldn't see, but her ears picked up an odd sound. The husky male tone morphed into something familiar, too close.

"C'mon, you little shit. Stop your bawlin' and put up a fight." The tone was feminine now, a jagged voice.

Rebecca took a blind swipe at the air. She felt skin gather under her nails. The voice started to laugh.

"Is that all you got? I guess Two Hand can't do much with her own _two hands_ without a gun. Haha, get it?"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Rebecca attempted to wipe her eyes to be rid of the sand. In a teary blur, she looked up and saw the cop.

"Hey, baby, can you hear it? The skeleton chorus is singing for you." The voice didn't match the body. The cop lowered his sunglasses and Rebecca screamed. The pair of teeth in the eye sockets chattered and the face melted away, creating a new visage.

"Hey, gungirl, why don't you give the band some doubloons for their trouble?" Revy said. Blood and coins dripped from the teeth-eyes. Rebecca punched the woman's jaw and it came loose from the force, hanging limply from her face and swinging. The teeth-eyes clicked and grinned.

She got to her feet and ran, ran as far as she could in the desert wasteland. The sands began to slither around her and pits began to form. Still, she ran, and ran, and ran. A storm brewed at her heels and a colorful band of skeletons played a somber tune in the background.

"You can run on for a long time," they rattled while plucking strings on guitars. "Sooner or later God'll cut you down..."

She swore incoherently and put her chin down to her chest, breaking into a full sprint. Everything her feet touched crumbled into flame and the desert began to fade and crack. A raven flew beside her head as the world disappeared.

"You need to stop, girl," the bird crowed. "I did some bad things in my life too, but the boss man doesn't like you tearing up the dreamscape so much. You might want stop going in so deep."

"_You needn't speak, Matthew. I shall deal with this one accordingly._"

Then Rebecca ran full force into another man in black and fell back from the hit. She looked up. It was not _her_ Man in Black, but a man in black nonetheless. There was no brimstone in his eyes, only dark voids, and he rested atop a nondescript white horse. The raven landed on his shoulder.

"_I see the new Corinthian is attending to his tasks well," _he said to himself. _"Perhaps _too _well. Miss Two Hand, you have been digging into this realm very deep as of late. This, I cannot abide as you have sight of the waking world also. Such things can lead to calamity_."

"The fuck are you yammering about?" she spat.

"_You shift far too often between worlds,_" he said matter-of-factly. "_You dream as you wake. This is usually not a conundrum, but your actions have been having an effect on my duties. The Western landscape is in decay._"

"Just who the hell are you? Who do you think you are to tell me this shit? I don't even understand a fucking thing you're saying."

"_The alcohol consumption with the yaba does not bode well with your already broken mind,_" he stated. "_You may want to re-evaluate your life choices while you still have them, lest you meet my eldest sister for good. You are drifting out of my realm, thankfully. I can repair this dreamscape while you are away._"

She could say nothing more as he rode away with the raven and the broken desert fell out of her view. She stood in a dark void and beheld the sight of a pale woman in black cowgirl attire with an ankh around her neck. Rebecca looked down at herself and realized she was Revy again before looking back at the familiar woman.

"So, you're here again, huh?" the smiling woman asked. Revy looked to the side and pursed her lips. She never knew how to deal correctly with Death whenever they met. She scratched the back of her head.

"Uh, yeah... I guess I am."

"You're still not ready, I see," Death said, crossing her arms over her chest with a smirk. Revy sneered.

"Well, fuck, I don't really have a choice, do I?" the gunslinger shrugged.

"Strange thing about that. A guy I know made a bet a long time ago, but I don't think you wanna gamble at the moment." Something in Death's eyes glimmered in remembrance.

"Then why are you here?" Revy asked quickly.

"More like, 'Why are _you_ here'?" Death retorted. "You put yourself in a lot of predicaments that end with seeing me."

"So, is that a fucking problem?" Revy asked agitatedly. "You always look so happy when I come." Death laughed at the words.

"A problem? Not for me, _never_ for me. But for you..."

Revy grit her teeth and glared, before slouching and exhaling in a deep hiss.

"Whatever. I'm not going yet. You got an issue with that?"

"None at all," Death said. She smiled solemnly. "I just hope the next time we meet, you'll be more at peace with yourself."

Revy couldn't give a jaded remark as she found herself being shaken by Rock in her bed.

"Revy? Revy! Wake up! Please wake up!"

Her glassy eyes regained some livelihood and she instinctively brought her hand to her face. Blood was leaking from her nose.

"Rock, it's all static. I'm alive," she mumbled. Without thinking, she grabbed his tie and started to wipe her face. The sun peeked out from the shades of her room. How long was she out?

"I was worried," Rock confessed, ignoring the ruined accessory. "We hadn't heard from you for three days. When I came here, I thought you had..."

Revy rolled her eyes with a grimace, before shooting a nasty grin his way. Without warning, she grabbed a fist full of his hair and brought his face to hers.

"I was just dreamin', Rocky-baby. That's all."

* * *

**A/N:** Last chapter. Phew, main characters are difficult for me to write about. Revy is hard to peg. Tie that in with Dream, and I had absolutely no clue how to tackle these beasts. I tried, with some much needed help.

I definitely borrowed some stuff from Amigodude's Gun Punk here. If you haven't read it, just leave this story right now. Go read Gun Punk. _Now_. Seriously, like, _right now_.

Cheers.


End file.
